An Epic Battle
When people mention great battles that have been fought through the history of time, there are a few that immediately spring to mind; David and Goliath, Gettysburg, Waterloo and Stalingrad to name but a few. However, there is one battle that leaps straight to the forefront of my mind; a battle that lasted almost an hour and a half and that left one child a worn, tearful but eventual hero. A battle that defines courage and guts; that shows what one can do if he is determined enough. The battle I want to talk about is mate Ashley versus his own bowels, when he fought with them for 90 minutes to avoid shitting his own pants.

The greed part of this story comes from the sheer amount of food that Ashley had consumed one morning. We used to have an eating challenge which we named Toast Rally. Basically, it involved putting 4 slices of bread in the toaster. As soon as they popped up, they had to be buttered and then replaced in the toaster whilst we consumed them. Rinse and repeat. We would see how many slices of warm, buttery toast we could eat. Ashley was particularly good at this game, and my brother and I had watched in amazement on numerous occasions as we watched Ashley break both our records and his own every time he took up the Toast Rally Challenge. On this particular Saturday morning however, he surpassed himself. He managed one full loaf of white bread, plus a loaf and a half of wholemeal bread. Now this itself was new, as we normally only used white bread - but we ran out and Ashley felt he could carry on, so we had to switch to wholemeal. Still, it was a fantastic feat and we agreed that the new record would stand.That afternoon my brother, cousin, Ashley and I were playing football on the green outside the front of my house. I think I must have been about 14 at the time. We had two goals set up and were playing 2 on 2, using a very small football. Every now and again, I’d run across to the front window and peer through at the TV so I could check the latest football scores, which would disrupt the flow of the game. We also had to stop whenever a car went past as we had a tendency to be a bit wayward with our shots. However, these small pauses in the afternoon’s fun were nothing compared to the waiting around we had to do when Ashley’s battle began.As I ran towards goal with the ball, I saw Ashley approaching me, defending his goal. I neared him and thought about an early shot, but decided that I’d try and take it past him before slotting the ball into the goal. I was a couple of yards from him, when without warning, and quite hastily, Ashley dropped to the floor and lay face down on the grass. He was stretched out, but he crossed his ankles and I could see that he was clenching hard. Despite witnessing him fall down, I scored my goal and celebrated before we all gathered round him and peered down.

“What are you doing?” asked my brother. “You could have saved that”.

‘Bllllllaaaaaapp-a-flap-flap-flap-a-bbblaaap-flap-flap’

Ashley responded with one of the wettest farts I have ever heard. His hands quickly went from being flat out on the grass above his head, to cupping his bum cheeks. We all burst into laughter, apart from Ashley.“Oh God, I really need a shit”“Go to the toilet then”, I said.“I won’t make it”, Ashley whimpered, his face still sunk into the grass.

‘Blllllaaaarrmmm-bup-bup-bup-blaaaapp-flap-a-flap’

Once again, Ashley let out a wet, meaty fart.“That must have been more than just air that came out”, I joked, but Ashley didn’t laugh, he stayed where he was and let out a silent groan.

For the next ten minutes we just stood over Ashley, trying to make him go to the toilet, but he remained on the grass. Eventually, he made an effort to move, and slowly but surely, he got into a crouched position. As we egged him on, it looked like he’d finally got the beating of his bowels, but then he let rip with an almighty air biscuit that threatened the safety of all of our nostrils. He collapsed to the grass again and rolled back onto his stomach at a rather impressive rate.

“What the fuck are you doing?” we asked.“It won’t come out if I’m like this. If I move I’m going to shit myself”. By now Ashley was beginning to panic. My cousin probably didn’t help his composure at all;“Well it looks like you’ve got two options. Shit yourself now, or stay here all night and shit yourself in your sleep”.Again, we all chuckled. How nice it was watching someone struggle to hold in an ever-nearing poo. I was so glad it wasn’t me.

As the battle went on, Ashley got braver. He nearly made it to a standing position quite a few times, but on each occasion, he’d fart loudly before collapsing to the floor again as if he’d been shot by a sniper. The game of football had been ended, and we were all sat down, chatting idly, occasionally stopping to go silent and watch Ashley’s efforts to make it the very short distance to my house, and then laughing as he farted and fell down again. After about an hour, his face was purple, and he had made an imprint in the ground from where he’d been laying for so long. Still he fought the urge to soil himself. Bored, we started chanting, trying to help spur him on,‘ASHLEY, ASHLEY, ASHLEY’ we sang in unison, but it was no use, he was still unable to make many movements.

Just when we were thinking of going in to get something to eat and leaving Ashley where he was, he spoke. His face turned to look at us,“Get me a large stick”

“A stick?”

“Yes, and hurry”

For some reason, none of us asked questions despite being intrigued, and we went to a nearby tree to find a stick. Peering back at Ashley, I saw that he was still in the same position. I wonder what people looking from their houses must have thought he was up to. My thoughts were interrupted, “Found one!” said my cousin.

We went back to Ashley and handed him the stick. It was about half a metre long and five centimeters in diameter. Ashley rolled over onto his back and looked up at us.“This is it; I’m going to make it now” he said, as if giving himself motivation. Still, none of us knew what he was up to but we watched excitedly, secretly hoping that he’d follow through eventually.Ashley began to stand up again, and as before, farts flew out of him like he was a deflating whoopee cushion. Rather than collapse to the floor as before though, Ashley poked the stick through his shorts, into his sphincter and waited until he could move again. He was soon in a standing position, with the stick still held firmly in place and we were all in hysterics at what we were witnessing.

We watched as a determined Ashley waddled ever so slowly across the road and through my front door, punctuating his walk with farts that reverberated off of the stick. He was calm though, and taking his time, using the stick as a safety barrier. He had to stop every couple of paces and regain composure, but after an almighty struggle, he had made it into the house and to the toilet.We cheered as the front door closed behind him, our eyes filled with tears of laughter. What we saw that day will never leave me; it was a true display of courage and determination. It was the talk of our group of friends for the next couple of weeks.

Food Challenges
Me and my mates used to do "Challenges". Everyone often makes throwaway remarks like "oh i love kitkats, i could eat 100 of them", we decided to start holding people to their word.

This gave birth to the "Cheerios Challenge" which was a pint of milk and a whole box of cheerios, in one sitting. My mate ate the cereal no problem but spewed the milk all over.

The "Fruit Pastel Lolly Challenge" was hilarious, same mate said he loved them and could eat 20....so we bought a few boxes. He started eating them normally while we watched spiderman 2, eventually his tongue turned black and he was just biting them to get them down. He begged 2 of us to eat some for him, and failed after about 14. The next day he said his teeth hurt so bad he couldnt do anything without being in agony. He had to eat toast by tearing tiny squares and placing it on his tongue till it was moist enough to swallow.

(I have to add im shaking with stifled mirth just remembering these)

The greatest challenge which has been attempted is now know as the Filous 50 (or Filous 5-0). The challenge is to eat 50 fromage frais in one sitting. The theory is that each pot is "only a big spoon"....

In practice its the worst thing ive ever tried. I ate about 28 before chucking into a bucket. Some have done worse and a few better. My mates swiss cousin did 40odd apparently. Its the consistancy that defeats you, flavours no longer apply as its just slime you're having to force down. I started off showboating by licking the lids, by the end of it i'd even downgraded to a teaspoon.....

Try it with your friends :D

The moral btw is dont fuck with dairy

*edit

I remembered another, the "Nice Biscuit Race". My mate said he could eat a pile of nice biscuits the 'height of a small child'. I offered him a head to head instead, we brewed a vat of tea and set about eating as many as we could. Tea was only for washing down, dunking was not allowed. It finished with my mate a biscuit ahead and he was smashing them with his forehead and picking at the crumbs.... good times.
(Monkeystrumpetmonkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Fri 15 Apr 2011, 10:01,
13 replies)

I've told this story before, but it seems apt.
My nan...Years ago, I guess I was about 12, I went to visit my Nan for dinner, but for some reason I was running late, so by the time I let myself in, she was already eating, and, honestly, this plate of meat she was eating was huge, absolutely huge, and my Nan was only a skinny old thing. I actually commented on the size of her meal.

‘I know, but by the time I got in, I was so hungry I felt like I could eat a horse’ she said.

And to be fair, judging by the size of the plate she had, I almost believe that she actually was.

It seemed kind of odd though, because she’d been shopping with my Mum that afternoon and my mum had taken her to lunch at some chain tacky steakhouse thing, Bernies Grill or whatever and had come home moaning that my Nan had had the largest, most expensive steak on the menu. She said something like ‘I don’t know how she did it, but I may as well have just bought her the whole cow’.

Although thinking back, she always did have a voracious appetite, I remember when I was younger we’d been to a Jamaican market somewhere around Brent Cross or somewhere and she’d gone to a food stall and ordered a massive goat curry. At the time I found the idea of goat curry repulsive, but she scoffed it all down in seconds, literally just opened her throat and it was gone.

Still, I shouldn’t have been surprised that she ate the curry given that she lived near a Korean restaurant that was widely rumoured to sell dog meat if you had the right connections, and apparently my Nan did, or at least claimed she did, cos she was always bragging about eating it.

What with that and her willingness to eat take away from the cheapest Chinese on the street, I guess there was nothing that phased her. You know the type of take away I mean, where everyone believes that the serve cat instead of chicken.

What’s absurd is that she also had a taste for the finer things. If someone else was paying she loved nothing better than a stuffed pheasant or some other game bird. She could easily eat a whole one.

My favourite story though, was when she was on holiday somewhere exotic and came back saying she’d eaten tarantula. Christ, my stomach churned at the thought of eating a spider.

Shit, sorry, I am waffling, the point is, despite her food extravagances, she was as tight as a gnats proverbial, she refused to spend even the slightest amount of money on basic hygiene products for example, so her house was this filthy fly ridden dump of a place. Really disgusting, always things buzzing around your head, had to keep swatting them away from your mouth and stuff, it was grim.

When she died after, basically, eating herself to death, it was discovered that she had a tapeworm, hence her appetite.

Greeeeed
'So what should we get your daddy, eh?' said Mummy, a small snotty child dangling off her like an over-excited tumour.

'I wants to buy him a weeeally big bar of chocolate!' I said, in the painfully over-excited, cute way that attracted random grannies going 'Ahh, the little love'.

You know, I'd quite like to hop in a time machine, go back, and give my nauseating little face a good hard slap. I'd so have had it coming; the little obsequious, toadying con-artist rat-bastard that I was. But anyway:

The slab of chocolate was duly purchased, resplendent in wonderful sparkling violet-purple foils. And duly hidden away for a good father's day surprise.

In the cupboard, in my room. Within arms reach.

Well, of *course* I bloody did!

I was a bratling, greedy, and - lets face it - the subject of this QoTW would make it rather strange if I had done anything else, no? I swear that chocolate bar got bigger every time my saucer-like eyes looked at it, and I looked at it a lot, let me tell you. I polished it with my eyeballs every spare second. A week of torture followed as I tried to resist:

Just one more look. So shiny. So chocolatey. So big. So NAUGHTY. I'm just going to... sniff it for a bit. Thats ok, right? And maybe lick the foil. Oh no, I've bitten down! I've left teeth marks! I didn't mean to. Oh no, oh no, I've pierced the foil, oh no, I can taste.... Oh gods.

Well, its a very BIG bar of chocolate - daddy won't miss a bit off the corner. Just a little nibble. I'll bite it all neat and fold up the foil again - he'll never notice its a bit shorter. Because its so big.

I writhe in shame and guilt. I feel really quite sick. What can I do? I'm too young to get out on my own so I can't replace it - and I can't bring myself to confess to mummy. But wait! My sister bought daddy chocolate too, and she's a big meanie and I know where she hid it and she's outside and she won't notice and I'm sure its her fault somehow anyway and no-one will know if I just- steal it.

Wow! If anything, my sister's gift is even bigger than the one I had! A triumphant brick of a bar. So heavy. Really big!

...I wonder what it smells like?

If I died tomorrow, my family would have my gravestone read: "Here lies WaxChewer. He ate all the father's day chocolate. The whole lot. On the eve of the day itself, even though it made him feel sick and half of it was his sister's gift to his dad."

Sadly, the filial taunting has not strengthened my will-power with regard to chocolate. I'm still a rampant chocy thief, but even worse - and I daren't confess it to them - no chocolate has EVER tasted as nice as those two bars. Gods I'd so fucking steal them again, you bet your arsehole, oh hell yes!
(IChewCandlewax, Fri 15 Apr 2011, 13:03,
5 replies)

A pea
I was in a Netto-a-like shop when I saw a good deal. Ten packs of three chocolate bars for a quid. "I'm having those" I thought.They were about the size of a Penguin/Club/Rocky biscuit and were yummy.

I must've ploughed through maybe 8 of them that afternoon. It was then that Mrs Sandettie pointed out that they were sugar free 'Candarel Bars'. I didn't care. For sugar-free they were rather tasty.

Then my guts started gurgling. Shortly after that, my bowels starting moving. Well, I say moving. It was more like sprinting. I sat on the toilet, passing rusty water from my arse which was so thin it actually sounded like I was taking a piss.

I visited that room 6 times in all. Later that evening, my mate came round and found it most amusing that I had to sit on a rolled up duvet because I had a arse like a brakelight.

A Chinese
all you can eat restaurant that I used to frequent liked to play the Carpenters back to back all day every day....I always hoped they'd done this on purpose to make people feel subliminally guilty about eating too much.
(bROKEN aRROWPUA HVI Master, Thu 14 Apr 2011, 17:57,
9 replies)

One of my friends once defrosted a cheesecake, then he and his girlfriend ate a slice each.
Later that night, she went to bed, leaving him in the lounge.

After a while, he fancied some more cheesecake... then a bit more. Finally, he realised how much was gone and how much of a fat greedy bastard he'd look when his girlfriend woke up. What to do? Racking his brains, he came upon a plan so cunning you could call it a Blackadder joke...

He ate the rest of the cheesecake, got another one out of the freezer, carefully cut a couple of slices from it to replicate the ones he and his beloved had enjoyed earlier, ate them frozen and went to bed. Where presumably he lay awake all night sweating like a rapist and praying for his indigestion to end :)
(Could it be? Yes, it's Prof KM...<not really a professor anymore>, Mon 18 Apr 2011, 23:48,
1 reply)

I once worked as a rent boy, servicing coked-up bankers in the lift of the Empire State building
...it was wrong on so many levels.
(moon monkeyis busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 14 Apr 2011, 17:44,
4 replies)

Knicerbockerglory!
As a small boy I was in joplings (a department store in sunderland), if my memory serves, with my grandmother. We went to the cafe for a drink and I noticed a huge dish, taller then it was wide, filled with ice-cream. "Nana!" I cried, "What is that?""It's a knickerbockerglory." she replied with a small smile, clearly knowing where this was heading."Can I have one, can I? Pleeeeeeeeaaase!!!!" I pleaded as only a 4 year old can. With a flash of her false pearly whites, my Nana agreed to spend more of her pension then I like to think on a truly decodant amount of ice-cream.

A waitress came and took our order. "Nigger bogger glowy please!" I half shouted in my excitement. Before I knew it, IT arrived. The dish towered way over my head. Clearly, this was a Herculian task, to ask it of a child was sheer madness. Undaunted, I stood on my seat and attacked with the enthusiasm of a kitten jumping at a shoe lace. How my grandmother laughed as I dug in, I tractates the first jelly layer, then the second, I was making good use of the super long spoon. Outer customers watched in what was either awe or disgust as I fished out the final chunk of peach and dropped my spoon into the empty dish.

"Gosh, is that all gone?" asked my nana, her smile from ear to ear. "Would you like another?".I still remember her laugh when I said I would.
(Mong goose, Wed 20 Apr 2011, 0:24,
9 replies)

hunger most fowl. (sorry)
As a skint student, left with the choice between beer and food one Friday night, I did the obvious thing and chose beer. It was a good choice until I got home, starving, having not been able to afford my favoured Abdul's Kebab (I was back in Manchester last summer, Abdul's is still going strong and still does the best kebab's in the country, I strongly recommended them) and went to the fridge to see what I could rustle up. There, in front of me, next to my kwik Save sausage roll and empty ketchup bottle that I was still rinsing with vinegar to get the last few drops from, was a huge, golden, succulent roast chicken, with what looked like it must have been just two or three slices having been already eaten. I reasoned that whichever of my flatmates has cooked it wouldn't miss one more slice and it was just too tempting for hungry, salivating me to pass up. I grabbed the knife from the draining board and set about cutting myself one thin, tasty slice. Only I hacked at it a bit and it was too obvious, so it needed tidying up, and anyway, I could just eat the extra bits. Whcih I did, but all I had managed to do was spark my hunger. So to hell with it, I thought, I can always just deny all knowldege, and anyway, he won't mind if I just nick a leg, surely? only, it wasn't just a leg in the end, and by the time I was done I was left with a slimey, picked clean plate of chicken skin and bone. Which for some reason, i decided to put back in the fridge. My plan of utter denial made sense in my drunken state and I toddled off to bed, satisfied and sleepy.

Faced with my flat mate the next morning, I denied everything, saying that we'd all been out separately the night before and it could have been anyone. And I may have gotten away with it, but as I went to unlock the door, I couldn't find my keys. Only to hear a jingling sound and turn round to my flatmate hanging them by his fingers and saying 'Looking for these? They were on the plate in the fridge'.

A couple of weeks ago
I had some people working over the weekend. Being the ever generous boss I popped out to get some lunch for them – also keeps them at their desks being productive.

It was just before 12pm on a Sunday, and there was 2 other people in the Burger King. "Can I have 5 Double Whoppers & Cheese and 5 large chips please." The burger monkey paused and looked me up & down “Eating in or taking away?”

A Lifetime's Ambition, Ruined
I am, and have always been, fascinated by animals. I watched more natural history programs on TV as a pre-schooler than is at all natural. I can remember at the age of five being wildly excited because I was allowed to stay up late and watch the original broadcast of Life On Earth in 1979. Biology was a natural choice at University, as was postgraduate study. Animals are great, and I can't ever know enough about them.

Unsurprisingly, many of my life's ambitions revolve around seeing animals. Some - such as finding my own fossils and seeing a live whale - I have fulfilled. Others, such as going on safari, I have not. One of the most treasured ambitions that I nurtured was to go diving off the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, a site of such dazzling biodiversity that send any red-blooded natural history enthusiast into near-instant paroxysms of orgasm.

It was an ambition I thought I'd never fulfil - too far away, too expensive. Until my girlfriend at University picked up nothing less than a years' paid work placement in Sydney as part of her degree. Suddenly all I had to find was money for a flight and a spending money: everything else would be catered for. I was very sad to see her go but as the weeks ticked past I became so excited. Not only would I get to see her again soon, but I'd be going to Australia! And, of couse, we'd planned to drive up to Queensland and fulfil my ambition of going diving! Oh, the ecstasy!

There were a few teething problems. I had to learn to dive first, but that proved no great obstacle as I didn't need to be properly qualified, just vaguely competent. It was a long way too, but we hired a camper van and drove on up there. The night before I was so excited I could barely sleep.

We'd booked ourselves on an organised dive tour, and had time to kill on the boat from the mainland over to the reef. It was a pretty nice boat with plenty to do to keep us occupied but one of the fun bonuses of being on a nice boat was that they'd laid on a nice buffet. We both liked - and still like - to think of ourselves as gourmets in the making so we sat down to appreciate what was on offer. It was pretty good, so we had some more. And then again it was all free as part of the ticked we'd paid so we had a bit more again. And then of course there was dessert. Delicious! And before we knew it we were there, and getting changed into our wetsuits, with me almost shaking with anticipation as I climbed into the water.

At which point I discovered I'd eaten far too much to swim, got terrible stomach cramps and could do nothing other than cling grimly onto the boat ladder while the rest of the group swam off to enjoy the underwater safari of a lifetime.
(MattDP(Squiggle), Tue 19 Apr 2011, 14:55,
7 replies)

Anal Probe
When a student... actually the year AFTER I was a student I took part in some lovely fellow's PhD experiment which was researching IBS. I was healthy volunteer. My role in all this involved three visits to a grubby hospital near Wembley where I would change into one of those stylish and practical backless robes, lie on my side with my knees tucked up and have a wire inserted into my arse. Electrical shocks of varying strength would then be beamed into my rectum and the electrodes strapped to my head measured my response.

I seem to remember hearing that 1/10 of the world - the west - is consuming 9/10 of the world's resources.
I don't know if it's true, and I'm no fucking hippy, but I do know they've just opened a ski slope in Dubai, which, considering the area's lack of water, sounds a little obscene to me.

But fuck the povvers - I'm off for a beer, and then I'm going to go home and watch the news on my big telly while eating some nice food, and follow a story about Africa and how they're all dying.

Like everyone else, I pretend to care about others, but really I'm too fucking greedy to do anything about it other than make occasional, token gestures to numb the nagging, vague feeling of guilt I get when I realise how incredibly fucking lucky I am to live in a politically stable, rich country that to the larger extent allows me to live life exactly how I fucking choose, without ever having to go through any real hardship, including doping me right up should I ever get cancer.

Well, it might be for a super-model. In the cheaper seats, its the shittiest job ever: cold, boring, tiring and the photographer ALWAYS forgets something. Men = atrociously groped or neglected prop.

As for the women? Oh yes, you'd kick quite a few of them out of bed. In fact, if you farted, some of the bony little things away would blow away like a punctured sex-doll; photoshop has a dark side, believe me.

Worst gig I ever did - clotheshorse for a nasty little kink site. Not much cash, but photographer was a bearable letch. Of course, he forgot the reflector, but we improvised with one of those all-over tan lilos propped up against a brick.

I was partnered with a squeeze of the site-owner: OK in her day but now thorough mutton, she'd got rat-assed the night before and her breath stank of vomit. Intimately handcuffed to a grumbling volcano of chunder, the day was not pleasant. We did some work outside: a disused railway bridge was disused right up until I was just in mesh trousers and goose-pimples, then we were falling over dog-walkers, misc. gawpers and some sort of Duke of Edinburgh troop. And vomit.

I gave it up after that; I was a big fish in a very, very small pond for a while, but it could never last - lucky genetics can only stretch so far. My niece does some of it now and again, and I have it from her that its even more brutal. You need incredible dedication these days; no way could I give up tea and chocolate for a diet of the occasional raisin and a bleach mouthwash.
(IChewCandlewax, Mon 18 Apr 2011, 17:02,
3 replies)

Killer crisps and zombie chicken
Years ago I worked in an office where we got paid little and drank a lot. This didn't leave much disposable cash for rent or food, so we all lived in hovels and scavenged whateer sustenance we could. Once upon a time, and for complicated reasons, we took delivery of several pallets of Flamin' Hot Monster Munch with nowhere to go. This was a brand new invention in them days, and we all tucked in to this trendy new snack with gusto.

But there was something strange about them. Something none of us could put out collective finger on. It was while opening my fifth or ninth packet of the morning one day when I realised what it was – they smell like spunky tissues. Seriously, go and buy a pack now, and inhale the air from the bag. Go on. I'll wait.

See? Spunky tissues. Obviously, I couldn't wait to share my eureka moment, yelling 'spunky tissues!' across the office. Needless to say, once I explained the nuances of my Unified Monster Munch-Jizzrag Theory, this put people off eating Flamin' Hot Monster Munch after that (the office was a regular sausage farm with a somewhat homophobic atmosphere). Me and one other guy continued to live on the remaining boxes and boxes of the not-especially-monstrous snacks until they were well past date, despite someone making a joke about us liking eating spunky tissues every single time we opened a pack. And now every time I wank, I want a bag of crisps.

A few months after that, we had some new computers delivered. I thought tthe plastic chips they were packed with looked like Wotsits, but everyone said they were plastic. So I ate one. It tasted like an unflavoured Wotsit. So i ate a load more. Again, I lived off those for at least a fortnight, grabbing a handful whenever I got peckish at my desk. I wouldn't allow the handyman to take away the box because he was 'stealing the food out of my mouth'.Nowadays, I'm pretty sure they will have chemically treated those packing Wotsits to make them safe for computers, so Zod knows what hilarious effects I'll experience in the future. I've got my money on 'beneficial mutations' and I'd rather no one told me any different.

We also used to eat Popcorn Chicken – not the nice meat-y stuff you get now, but all the bits of Colonel-coated gizzard and connective tissue and eye you used to get when they first tried it in the UK. It cost something like £1.50 for a big box full, and even though we were clinically malnourished, it was A BIg Deal when one of us (me again) actually finished the whole thing.
(electricteeth, Fri 15 Apr 2011, 12:45,
3 replies)

Looking after Number One
I've worked with some very Machiavellian people in my time, but my old boss took the biscuit.

At one point, when I'd got involved in a discussion about pay and promotion, he tried to test my morals to see what I'd do for money.

Basically, I asked for a payrise, and he said that the only way I could have a payrise was if I agreed to block the payrise of the guy who worked for me, who happened to be a really good mate, as he couldn't possibly afford to give us both a raise. Evil Boss was visibly enjoying making me mull over such a ruthless course of action. After giving it some thought, and him giving me plenty of encouragement to 'Look after Number One'. I finally agreed to it, and we shook hands on my payrise.

Do I feel guilty?

Not at all. What Evil Boss didn't realise was that my friend was about to hand his notice in, anyway. He'd been offered a job that day. I knew this because I'd helped him find the job, with a mate of mine at another company, and I was getting half of the £1,000 Finders Fee as a result.

My friend had a hamster for a year or so before another acquaintance, who was going on holiday for a while, asked him to look after his too. The second hamster was duly placed in the existing hamster's cage.

The next morning, not only had the first hamster partially eaten the new arrival, but the remains of its hind quarters had an unmistakably bloodied anus.

He'd been bummed to death, then eaten, or eaten then bummed. Either way, I'd say this ranks as more than averagely greedy.
(rofl harris, Tue 19 Apr 2011, 11:42,
6 replies)

Legend
There's an enormous guy from my home town who's mates once bet him £20 that he wouldn't be able to eat 20 battered fish from the chip shop.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY
I’ve always been a lover of food. Taste, texture and presentation rather than mounds of greasy product. Don’t get me wrong, if there’s a pile of pizza to be eaten I’ll help out, but it’s not really my thing. So my second date with the lovely to be Mrs ring of Fire, at one of those factory outlets for food wasn’t destined for success. Can’t remember which…FattyTGIBucketHouse or something. I forgave her because as a life long veggie she couldn’t be expected to know the difference between good food and slop, and I wanted inside her knickers.

I chowed down on my plate of brown food, the deep fried breaded mushrooms were a particular crime, and despite myself cleaned my plate like a good boy. Then the lights went low, Happy Birthday started blaring from the speakers and an appalling mound of machine created ‘Pavlova’ decorated with sparklers was carried into the eating area. I watched with increasing alarm and surprise as this thing was brought to our table and plonked in front of me. “Happy Birthday darling” said my shiny new girlfriend with a big grin on her face. At least they’d provided two spoons I thought, as the as the apple of my eye took one dainty mouthful before she dropped her spoon onto the plate, declared herself full and sat back in the chair. My every attempt to do the same was blocked by faux coquettish “but I got it for you darling, for your birthday”, “this pudding shows how much I love you” type comments.

I left that place with the top button of my jeans undone and plans for revenge. I guess the Mrs was left with the knowledge she could play me like a cheap violin.

Way back when
Well, about 17 years, 2 months and 4 days ago, probably about 1am, I had just had massive sex*. As Mrs SLVA fell into a troubled, unsatisfied sleep, I got the post-coital munchines so I crept downstairs and looked in the fridge. We had some eggs. 'Excellent' I thought, ' I'll make myself a fried egg sandwich.'. So I dug the pan out, made my sandwich, ate it and then pondered some more. I was still a bit peckish. So I did another. And then another. And so on. In the end, I had had 6 fried egg sandwiches. Even not counting the egg, that's a hell of a lot of bread.

There's an old saying. It's harder to get a camel into heaven, then it was for me to shit through the eye of a needle the following day.

I just remembered.
Around the age of 17, I watched an old bloke have a wank for a tenner while I was hitching to Reading festival.

I spent the money on a lump of hash that turned out to be mud.
(Edenmonsteris still bored, Tue 19 Apr 2011, 12:58,
12 replies)

Red Poo
I love beetroot, I eat as much of it as I can get.

It took me a few goes to work out I didn't have bowel cancer.
(Jugular, Sat 16 Apr 2011, 0:07,
8 replies)

Grave digging
In High Wycombe. With a mad Polish dope fiend. Spending hours down a fucking big hole, flint and chalk and soil slowly filling your arse crack, and hearing the gentle sobs of grieving relatives on and off during the day.

Worst experience: Digging part two of a "double"..ie, MrBloke had cashed in his chips, and a few years later, Mrs Bloke does the same...both to be buried in the same grave. Only the lazy fuckers that did the first one didnt go deep enough. So when we were digging the hole again for the Mrs, my foot went through rotting wood......

Halloween a couple of years ago, we got 4 big bags of Haribo gummy sweet things for the trick or treaters. Then on Halloween afternoon my Daughter fell off the climbing frame in school which meant we spent the rest of Halloween in casualty waiting for X-rays etc.

The upshot of that was, 4 big bags of unused Haribo. So being the greedy idiot that I am, I spent the next couple of days grazing through the 4 bags until before I knew it I had scoffed the lot.

2 MONTHS. It was 2 whole fecking months before I managed to have a decent shit again after ingesting all that gummy crap over such a short period of time. Every trip to the karzi was a trauma, I thought I would never crap properly again! The straining, the sweating and groaning, oh the humanity!

Chocolate cake.
This is not my story, but it makes me smile because it involves dieting and chocolate cake. So there she is, a stay-at-home Mum on a diet. She knows that there is half a chocolate cake in the cake tin, she also knows that she shouldn't eat any of it. Eventually, the temptation becomes too much and she eats some of the cake, which tastes wonderful! However, there is now a big slice missing from the cake, so her family will know that she has broken her diet. In order to hide her guilt, she needs to produce half a chocolate cake. So what does she do? She eats the rest of the chocolate cake. Then she bakes a whole new chocolate cake and eats half of that too. I'm not sure that this counts as greedy, I think it's more like "creative eating" and a lot of guilt.
(Woofie, Thu 14 Apr 2011, 21:33,
3 replies)

I took first place...
Like a greedy bastard.

I have the occasional day I binge on shit, but by large my appetite is pathetic. But my friend (skinny as a rake) eats as a competitive sport. How he's not obese/acne ridden is anyone's guess, maybe when he hits 30?

Anyway, my friend was telling me he went to one of those godamnawful giant chain buffet 'Eat as much as you fucking can, you tasteless fat fuck' places for a work leaving do a few months back.

He ate 34 profiteroles after about 4/5 full plates of a mishmash of various cusines (Roast Duck + Spare Ribs + Lasagne + Chips all on one plate...yum yum?)

He had to go home early as felt too ill and tired to hit the pubs, and couldn't fit any beer in his belly without it hurting.

Then got home and couldn't manage to lie down to sleep without feeling sick.

He spent the night on the sofa sweating and farting (Whilst I hope watching trans-world sport) and then did a big poo in the morning which he still talks about to this day.